The String

The movie came out in 2010.
We had seen the two movies that were made before this one.
We knew that Pixar never disappointed us before.
We knew that this time would be no different.

The original movie came out in 1995.
That was the same year I had my fifth child.
My younger son was almost four when we saw the movie.
In January, 1996, for his fourth birthday, he got toys from the movie.

Two toys in particular: Woody, a pull string cowboy doll and Buzz Lightyear.
There’s a snake in my boots and you’re my favorite deputy played over and over.
One pull of the string and Woody talked; just one pull of the string.
One flick of a switch Buzz commanded, to infinity and beyond.

We have a bridge that goes over our family room and foyer.
It was decided early on that nothing could be dropped from that bridge.
Nothing was ever dropped officially.
However, Woody was often lowered down on a lasso rope and swung ever so gently.

Toy Story and the two movies that followed were family favorites.
Toy Story and its characters will always remind me of my younger son.
That is why the third movie was so poignant.
That is why the third movie was so hard for me to watch.

I knew the plot before entering the theater.
I never imagined the story would affect me so deeply.
Andy, the little boy of the first movie, had grown up.
Andy was going off to college.

We saw that movie the summer before my younger son was heading off to college.
I had sent three other children off to college with all of its emotions and nostalgia.
But this was my son who dressed up as Woody for Halloween.
This is my son who dangled his Woody doll precariously over the forbidden bridge.

When the movie ended, I was in tears.
I felt like I was the only mother crying sitting there watching an animated movie.
My younger son reached over and put his hand on my arm.
I touched it back without looking at the little boy, now man, who would soon be leaving.

I had done this before.
I should have been an expert by now.
But I wasn’t.
I was crying at the movie, at the brevity of childhood, at the fact that my son was going.

I thought of all of this because next week my youngest daughter goes back to college.
It will be her sophomore year.
She will be a resident assistant this year.
She will be an R.A. for freshman girls and she will be a blessing.

Why doesn’t this get any easier?
Why does time seem to fly by faster and faster with each child?
Why does the passage of time seem so bittersweet?
Why does the mere sight of storage bins bring all these memories to the surface?

No matter how nice the campus may be, dorm rooms are dorm rooms.
You can cover walls with posters and pictures, but cinder block will always be dismal.
Comfy beds at home become paper-thin mattresses lying on a metal frame bed.
Desks with charm and accents become functional boxes with drawers and a bookcase.

It is not home, but it will be home away from home for the next nine months.
You walk out of your dorm room and immediately there are forty others your same age.
Bathrooms have stalls and showers in a row and multiple sinks to brush your teeth.
Refrigerators are small cubes that hold barely enough.

I commuted to college, so all of this was new to me when our oldest daughter left home.
I wondered how it would be for my children and for me.
There would be phone calls and texts; there would be cards and packages.
But I wouldn’t have them.

Their place would be empty at the table.
Their bed would not be slept in until fall break.
I found myself going into their rooms while they were away and sitting on their bed.
Not often, but sometimes, on a day I was really missing them.

They knew I missed them.
They just didn’t know how much.
They didn’t know how my throat got tight even before we pulled into the campus.
They didn’t know that my stomach was in knots knowing that goodbyes must be said.

They didn’t know.
It was the beginning of the next stage, the last stop on the train of childhood.
They change trains at this juncture; they must.
They have their boarding pass; they have been prepared well.

You don’t want to like their room when it is all set up, but you have to like it.
If you really step back and if you are really honest, it does look good.
It has already begun to take on their personality.
You don’t want to like the other students on the floor, but you do, you really do.

You have to like it, so they can be released.
You are holding the string of this childhood balloon.
The balloon is ready to soar.
The balloon is very ready.

Everything is done.
There is nothing left to do but say goodbye.
You know that you are going to cry most of the way home.
You prepare yourself, but there is one thing more.

You have to release the string that you have been holding onto for eighteen years.
You have to let the balloon catch the winds of change and soar.
You can watch it for a while but then you notice there are other balloons.
There are others letting go.

You watch the balloons as they soar up and up, never entangling their strings.
Each is on its on path.
What a beautiful picture it is.
It takes your breath away.

You hug, not because you’re tethered but because you’re not.
There is freedom in the release.
There is beauty in the soaring.
The sun glare obscures your vision for just a second but then you see it again.

There are so many balloons but you can always pick out your own.
You know the way it looks, the way it moves, and the way it soars.
You watch with your hand shielding your eyes.
Your eyes have tears but you tell yourself it is from the sun.

You tell yourself that but you know better.
You know that your heart hurts.
You know why the tears come.
You know.

Then you feel it.
Two arms surround you and hug you.
You hug them back.
They don’t want to let go and neither do you.

But you must.
Letting go and soaring are so closely connected.
The view is lovely from up there.
The view is lovely from down here, too.

You have been preparing for this moment for eighteen years.
You realize that you’re not ready.
But they are, so you have to be.
They think they are, so you have to think so, too.

Until that day in the not so distant future.
Your cell phone rings.
Mom, can we talk?
And you talk about nothing and about everything.

A new string is beginning to form.
A different string.
It is semi-attached but it is strong.
Oh, so strong.

The father of a righteous man has great joy; he who has a wise son delights in him. May your father and mother be glad; may she who gave birth to you rejoice! (Proverbs 23:24,25)

And it will be alright.

 

2 responses to “The String”

1. Love this. Please send me an email so we can catch up.

   Reply

   • Judith, I am glad this touched your heart. You and I both know the pain of letting go of the string.
     Where has the time gone? Our children were playing on the swings together just yesterday.
     Gina

     Reply